Sleepless
by Ryeloza
Summary: "If sleep was sometimes elusive, sometimes restless, the only way Tom could begin to describe it lately was as nonexistent."  A missing scene from "Secrets That I Never Want to Know."


**Disclaimer: **Trust me, _Desperate Housewives_ is not mine. I really don't own the little section of dialogue I took from the show; it's only in here because this story builds around that scene.

**Story Summary: "**If sleep was sometimes elusive, sometimes restless, the only way Tom could begin to describe it lately was as nonexistent." A missing scene from "Secrets That I Never Want to Know."

**Sleepless**

A story by** Ryeloza**

If sleep was sometimes elusive, sometimes restless, the only way Tom could begin to describe it lately was as nonexistent. He blamed it on the makeshift bed that just didn't feel like what he was used to, or the odd way the moonlight entered through the window on this side of the street, or the constant anxiety that he was going to not hear the alarm and oversleep. (Which, of course, he then did. And it was easy to fault the clock, but the truth was that since he'd gotten married, his wife had been his wake-up call, and now she wasn't there in the morning to kiss him or shake him or shout at him until he was awake.) Those were the excuses he made as he lay awake and punched the pillow in frustration and cursed her for being across the street while he was trapped in purgatory.

Finally, after weeks of this, he stopped at the store one night on the way home from work and bought enough Nyquil to last him a month. The whole time he was throwing furtive glances over his shoulder like Lynette might appear at any second and chastise him for stocking up on cold medicine to use as makeshift sleeping pills. She had this crazy fear of the addictiveness of medicine that had always driven him nuts, but there was some little part of him that was beginning to fear she was right. This was the first night in three weeks that he hadn't popped a pill before bed, and sleep had never seemed further away. At that moment, he was pretty desperately jonesing for that little blue pill, and only his fear of oversleeping again kept him from indulging.

It was endlessly obnoxious that this was just another thing she was right about.

Even worse, he was more annoyed by the fact that she hadn't been there three weeks ago to flush the pills down the toilet and lecture him about the potential evils of dependency. It was ridiculous, because if she had been there, he would have rolled his eyes and sighed and argued that it was just _cold medicine_ not cocaine. His frustration would have been palpable, but she would have just shrugged and kissed him and told him she loved him, and it would have been okay.

More and more, he found himself missing her eccentricities, the ones that a couple months ago, he could have killed her for if he had to deal with them one more day. The way she turned her pillow over at least three times before she fell asleep. How she never remembered to squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom of the tube. Her tendency to make grocery lists that were completely incomprehensible. Rationally, he knew that being irked by those little things was only a symptom of a bigger problem; rationally, he knew that longing for those things now didn't mean that this had all been a giant mistake.

But it was starting to feel that way.

And, he thought, as he glanced at his clock and groaned, if he was honest, that was the one thing really keeping him up at night: the sneaking suspicion that in one moment, he had completely fucked up his life. _He_ had fucked it up. Not her. He had been the one to leave that suitcase packed. He was the one who had suggested leaving. He was the one who had actually left. In one stupid moment of impulsivity, he'd ruined everything. Because he knew Lynette. He knew her better than he wanted to sometimes. And he'd cut her, broken her, let her deepest fear come true, and now she was running scared, defenses raised and trust destroyed. She wasn't going to let him back in easily. She might not take him back at all. And as much as he wanted to hate her for it, he couldn't. It was the one thing she'd always been honest about; she'd bared her soul to him long ago, let him see every flaw, and trusted him to accept her, all the while fearing that he couldn't. Marrying him had been her biggest leap of faith, and he'd betrayed that irreparably.

Regret and bitterness were interminably married. He knew now that he might spend the rest of his life lying awake, wishing things were different, wishing he could go back and change everything.

Wishing that somehow he could make this right.

Sometimes, in the darkest hour of the night, as he lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, he'd be overcome by the urge to walk across the street, take her in his arms, and tell her he needed her back. There were nights when he'd gotten as far as the curb before turning around and running scared. No matter how much he missed her, loved her, wanted her, needed her in his life, it couldn't quite overpower the thought that if he went to her groveling, nothing would change. They'd go back to the way things had always been, and he'd never be able to say a word again.

He was beginning to think it would come down to a choice: give in or give up. He didn't want to do either. And at the same time, he couldn't see how it might end up any other way.

Give in or give up.

Wearily, he rubbed his suddenly moist eyes. He couldn't go on like this. Not sleeping. Overemotional. He'd nearly cried the other day at work when he came across a note she'd tucked in his pocket the day he started this job, one he'd crammed in a desk drawer and forgotten about in the chaos of the following months. It was ridiculous. With an acquiescent sigh, he turned on the lamp and climbed out of bed, heading toward the bathroom to grab his pills.

Tomorrow morning he was going to call the doctor and find a way to get prescription sleeping pills, consequences be damned.

The bathroom was a mess. Cleaning had been the lowest item on his priority list, and it was definitely beginning to show. The floor still had little puddles from his shower that morning; toothpaste and shaving cream residue coated the sink; the trashcan was almost overflowing. It was disgusting. With sudden repulsion, he opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the disinfectant wipes, the smell of which always gave him a headache. Pulling one out, he began to attack the sink with ferocity he rarely showed, jamming his knuckles against the faucet, but barely registering the pain. One wipe barely scratched the surface of the grime, and he unceremoniously tossed it toward the trash can; it missed, slapping against the side of the toilet and dropping to the floor.

"Shit," he hissed, but as he bent to pick it up, a knock like the sound of a gun going off resounded through the makeshift apartment. His heart stopped. There was no question of who it was, and the only thing he could think was that nothing short of the house burning down would bring her over here. Anxiously, he hurried to the door, opening it, barely able to breathe at the sight of her. She looked a wreck, entirely discomposed; seeing her so upset physically hurt. "Hey," she mumbled; she was trembling from head to toe.

"Hey, hey, hey." He stumbled over his words, his brain flying faster than he could think. "Is everything okay with the kids?"

"Yeah, yeah. The kids are fine. I just…"

"What? Did something happen?" All he could think was that something had happened her mother—something worse than her going on a binge—or her sisters. Maybe one of her friends. But the kids were okay. Thank God the kids were okay.

"I really…" She paused, fumbling for some word, her voice breaking on a sob she'd been fighting. "…_need_ you right now." And before Tom could even understand the words, she flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him, cradling her face against his neck, her tears hot on his skin.

"Okay," he breathed, hugging her tightly. He felt outside of himself. A voyeur of his own life. Was this really happening?

Lynette pulled back slightly, but the embarrassment he expected to see on her face wasn't there. Without thinking, he began to move his right hand in circles against her back, soothing her as he'd done a thousand times in the past. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her what happened, to question why now, tonight, but the words seemed stuck in the back of his throat. She stared at him, eyes glassy, and when her gaze dropped to his lips for the tiniest fraction of a second, his arms stiffened around her. Hesitantly, she leaned up toward him, backed away, and then gave in, her lips finding his in one rash moment.

The world stopped.

This was something out of a dream. An alternate reality. A moment from a time and place where he hadn't screwed everything up, and he still came home to her every night and was allowed to kiss her and hold her and love her without question or fear. It was something so far beyond this crappy, cluttered room with the lumpy bed and a makeshift life.

As always, she brought him back. She moaned, a sound so strained and desperate and longing, it could only belong in this moment where they'd been separated for weeks. And it was that moan, more than her words or her actions, that said everything.

She needed him.

And he needed her.

God, he would shout it from the roof right now.

He _needed_ her.

Her hands danced up over his neck as he angled his face, deepening the kiss. For all the familiarity of it—the warmth of her skin as his hands slipped beneath her tank top; the smell of her shampoo; the feeling of her body pressed against his—it was also tinged with something foreign. It felt like returning home after years away, everything the same, but because he was different, it could never quite be what it was again.

Lynette began to tug at the collar of his t-shirt, trying to pull back so she could remove it, but he followed her lips, unable to let her go so easily. He turned them, kicking the door shut blindly and then walking her backward toward the bed. One hand skimmed down to her ass and pulled her even more closely to him. She nipped at his lip, a distraction he more than welcomed, and together they fell onto the bed, a mess of limbs, tangled together inseparably.

"God, I missed this," he breathed, lips finding her neck, kissing her as she shivered beneath him. "I've missed you."

She made a second attempt at removing his shirt, and this time he pulled back long enough for her to tug it over his head. Her hands ran over his back, nails scraping along his skin, and then she hooked her legs around his waist, squeezing herself against him. He let out a strangled groan, and kissed her, hard.

"I need to feel you," she whispered, the words almost lost in the fog of hope and lust. "I need to feel your hands on me. Your lips. God—I need you…need you inside of me…To know this is real…"

He rocked his hips against hers, happy to remind her that he was more than ready to comply. There was something frantic that felt incongruous with the moment. This should have been the time for subtle exploration; for teasing and rediscovering and playing. Instead, he felt tenuous, like at any second she could take it all back and run out of here without a second thought. It made no sense. She had come to him.

She had come to him.

God, she had _come to him_.

"You know how much I love you?" He gathered the hem of her shirt, struggling to take if off with her still pressed back into the bed. And then suddenly, her hands found his cheeks, thumbs running softly over his skin, and he looked down into her eyes, almost unable to hold her gaze because of the intensity in the depths of those deep blue orbs.

"I love you too," she said quietly. "I always love you."

"Always." He smiled, bending and nudging her nose with his, pecking her cheek, and then fumbling with her shirt again. They had to compromise by separating from one another for a moment, but then he found her again, grazing her breasts with the backs of his hands. Gently, he kissed a path down her neck to her chest and ran his tongue over her nipple. She squirmed beneath him, hands playing through his hair, dancing down to his face and rubbing over the rough stubble there. "Please," she gasped as he rolled her other nipple between his fingers, taunting her mercilessly. "Oh, Tom—Please!"

The sound of his name falling shaky and wanton her lips unraveled him. He yanked at her pants, continuously kissing every inch of her skin, down her stomach to her hip and thigh. With a ragged sigh, she scooted back on the bed, beckoning him to follow her. He did so obediently, squirming out of his pants as he did so, and trailing his lips back up her body, slowly pressing against her until they were leg-to-leg, hip-to-hip, chest-to-chest.

"Missed you," he whispered again, like he couldn't stop saying it now that he'd finally admitted the truth. Like if he said it enough, she'd realize how much he regretted everything. Like she'd know that it also meant what he still couldn't say: _I'm sorry_.

She pulled him toward her, kissing him, tongue sweeping over his lip and into his mouth. He could already feel himself coming undone, and he pushed into her with a sudden, fierce movement. She gasped slightly, ignoring his hushed apology as he pressed his forehead against hers. He could feel the sweat on her skin, the trembling of her body beneath his, the absolute connection that only came from being this close to each other. Slowly, she rolled her hips up toward him, and that one movement nearly killed him. "Doesn't matter," she murmured, and he realized that she was as near this precipice as he was.

Without any more preamble, he began to thrust against her, moving in and out in a rhythm that took nearly no time to remember. Her hand was hot against his neck, their foreheads still together, and she shut her eyes, mouthing silent prayers, gasping, moaning beneath him.

She was overwhelming. Her ability to be _everything_ to him was overpowering—it was beyond lust or love. It was something he couldn't even begin to understand. It was what made them, together, worth every fucking problem or fight or annoyance.

He'd never be able to let her go.

She gasped, a high, sharp sound, her back arching, hands clutching at him, body tightening and shaking beneath him. The sight of her, bathed in the dim lamplight, wracked in pleasure, was his undoing. He moved erratically against her, squeezing his eyes shut, trembling as he came.

Her hands were the first thing he was aware of as he fell sharply back to earth. That gentle, sweeping movement against the back of his neck, fingers twisting through his hair. And then her lips were against his cheek, his Adam's apple, his chin, his lips. He collapsed onto the bed, letting her explore, bringing his own hand up to brush her hair from her cheek.

She caught his hand, pressing it into her cheek for a second, and then bringing it toward her lips. Out of the blue, she paused, her lips pursing in a little 'o' as she sat up slightly. "What?" he asked, the question lazy and unconcerned.

"Your hand." Her thumb ran softly over the back. "What happened?"

He looked at the back of his hand. Two of his knuckles were cut open, blood slowly drying, from where he had smashed it against the faucet earlier. "Oh," he said, brushing it off. "Nothing."

"You're bleeding."

He shrugged, turning his hand in hers and trying to pull her back to him, but she rolled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom before he could stop her. "Lynette," he called halfheartedly; mostly, he felt breath-taken by the beautiful normalcy of this moment.

She returned a minute later, ignoring the way his eyes raked over her naked form, crawling back onto the bed with a first aid kit in her hand. Quietly, she cleaned and bandaged his hand while he watched her intently—hair falling into her eyes, the slightest frown tugging at her lips as she worked.

"There," she said quietly. She took his hand, gently kissing the place where he'd injured himself, and slowly, her gaze rose to meet his. They stared at one another, the mood suddenly changed in some inscrutable way, like there was a shift in the tone of this whole night. Like whatever that moment of crazed passion had been was now overpowered by tenderness.

Lynette dropped her head self-consciously, letting him wrap his arms around her and pull her to him. He kissed her, soft and slow, and both of them pretended she wasn't about to cry again.

He turned off the light and let the darkness envelope them—offering her that little piece of privacy he knew she needed to rebuild herself. And as he softly ran his fingers up and down her arm, leaning back and shutting his eyes, he could feel sleep creeping up around them like an old friend he'd thought he'd lost.

* * *

><p><strong>An: **I'm so glad I finally had the time and energy to write this! I've had the idea in my head since Sunday, but unfortunately things like grading papers and sleeping took precedence.

I felt like it was necessary for me to get into both Tom's and Lynette's mindsets during the premiere. For me, their motivations weren't entirely clear, and I wanted to take some time to explain where I saw both of them coming from (I can't bring myself to entirely blame either of them for this situation—probably because I mostly blame the writers). So I consider this almost a companion piece to "Run."

I hope you guys enjoyed this one. Thank you to everyone who reviewed "Run." The feedback was real motivation for me to sit down and really focus on getting this done. I hope you'll take another minute to let me know what you think of this one as well. Thanks so much!

-Ryeloza


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